Repose

It was quiet in Repose. Least for the moment. And when it was quiet in Repose, the Station usually managed the same. Not a lotta calls coming in, nobody locked in their houses, no mist making people see things, so there was only one deputy padding around, catching anything that came in—and, 'course, there was Cris. He never lacked for things to do, huh? Nah, he had lots to catch up on.

He was sitting out behind the front desk, in case somebody walked in, papers out in fronta him and him with a pen in his hand, tapping insistent against the spanna skin between thumb and forefinger. A thin tin can stood sentinel next to his hand, some half-finished energy drink that was prolly room temperature by now. He wasn't dressed in his blues like he mighta been usually. Nah, instead, he was just in a white dress shirt with sleeves shuffed up to his elbows, red tie thrown over his shoulder. It was more typicalla his last job, but it didn't really make a difference what he was wearing, he thought. People knew him these days and he didn't hafta brand himself in all that navy like he had at the start.

There was no music or nothing. The static spitta radios chirruping interrupted intermittent, but otherwise, it was quiet, and the guy at the desk was pretty engrossed in what he was doing, tapping like that, prolly driving the deputy loca so much, she was taking an extended smoke break. No music, but his foot found some beat too to play out on tile. If anybody came through the door, it took him a good handfulla seconds before the sound penetrated his skull, moved in vibrations that shook him from his concentration, and he finally looked up.